


see that we're dead until we wake up

by gauras



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Pre-Relationship, they sit on a roof and don't talk much bc they're Like That
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 14:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19443094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gauras/pseuds/gauras
Summary: Fjord wakes with a gasp, sharp enough to send him into a coughing fit, bent nearly in half as his blankets pool around his waist. Cool air bites at his skin, sweat collects at his hairline and turns to shards of ice. The coughing subsides and Fjord draws in a shaky breath, eyes flitting over his room to ground himself. The taste of copper stings the back of his throat, but there’s no salt, and his lungs don’t feel heavy with sea water.So, just a regular nightmare. Not alessonsent from a damn eldritch snake chained somewhere deep below the sea.





	see that we're dead until we wake up

**Author's Note:**

> i have cad's INT and fjord's WIS [drops this and runs]
> 
> title from woodkid's [the great escape](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CpNp4g8yTv0) (woodkid's album [the golden age](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLwic3h1bAlbmPcJrLH2lathvhQdoX-33D) is good and gay and has a lot of ocean/fire imagery... give it a listen i beg of u)

It’s not a dream of giant, glowing, slit-pupiled eyes and a voice that reverberates through water thick as molasses that wakes Fjord. There’s no blood that seeps from him in tendrils, no slick coils curling coolly around his ankles, no ache in his chest as the shadows of his ribs are lit from the inside by a dull yellow light.

Well. The ache in his sternum remains. So does the water, dark as pitch, close and oppressive.

The ache in his sternum remains, the water is dark, flooding his lungs as he releases his last bit of air as a few measly bubbles. They swirl in the turbulent water before they’re snatched up by the void. There’s a low rumble, then an explosion of shards of wood, spearing through the water from seemingly every direction. One glances Fjord’s side and he curls in on himself, hands pressed to the gash as he gasps reflexively, drawing in more water. Salt burns down his esophagus and into his lungs, pain lancing through him, pressure in his chest building. He convulses as the shockwave hits and sends him spinning, spiraling, swirling into the depths.

Fjord wakes with a gasp, sharp enough to send him into a coughing fit, bent nearly in half as his blankets pool around his waist. Cool air bites at his skin, sweat collects at his hairline and turns to shards of ice. The coughing subsides and Fjord draws in a shaky breath, eyes flitting over his room to ground himself. The taste of copper stings the back of his throat, but there’s no salt, and his lungs don’t feel heavy with sea water.

So, just a regular nightmare. Not a  _ lesson  _ sent from a damn eldritch snake chained somewhere deep below the sea.

Darkness paints Fjord’s room in greyscale, the edges of his sparse furniture smudged into the idea of a dresser, a chair, a bedside table. Water laps at the edge of his vision, and when he slips out from bed, the cold floor feels wet to the soles of his feet. Knowing it won’t help yet desperate enough to try, Fjord throws open his shutters in a bid to lessen the clinging dark. Countless stars sprawl overhead, but they cast a distant, meager light. A single sliver of warm golden light falls across the windowsill, however, and Fjord sticks his whole head and shoulders out the window, craning his head until his eyes land on Caddy’s tree, a jar of sunlight swinging sweetly from one of its lower boughs.

He takes the steps up to Caduceus’ garden two at a time, the hem of his sleep pants catching on the rough hewn stairs. Daylight bursts overhead, dozens of jars dangle haphazardly from uneven pieces of twine. Occasionally, a few will clink together as they drift in the breeze, oddly musical in the silence that hangs over the garden.

Until the silence is split by an enormous, rumbling snore and Fjord freezes, foot braced on the step just below the landing. In his little stone alcove bed, Caduceus shifts with a grunt, one of his long ears flapping irritably. Caduceus remains a mystery to Fjord--how he manages to find any sleep with all this light is beyond him. Fjord briefly considers turning around and heading for the kitchen or some shit, but quickly banishes the thought. Light and air, that’s what he needs, and a candle is far too easily snuffed out.

Instead, Fjord considers the drop-off between the tower and the roof, eventually coming to the thought of  _ fuck it, _ his sleep- and nightmare-addled brain deciding that the four foot drop from the tower’s crenelations is perfectly reasonable. He hops down and only stumbles a little, bare feet sliding on the roof’s slope. A few tiles dislodge and scrape their way off the house. There’s a lengthy pause, long enough to remind Fjord just how high up he is, and then there’s the sound of them shattering against the cobblestones below.

Ahead, a spark lights up the night as an orange flame flickers to life, held in an outstretched hand and illuminating what had previously been an immobile blob. Somehow, Fjord is completely unsurprised to find Caleb sequestered on the roof of the house.

Fjord raises his hands, fingers spread and palms forward, acutely aware of the way his shirt flaps loosely in the breeze, thin and flimsy. His leathers are still tucked away in his room. “Whoa, easy, it’s just me, Caleb,” Fjord says, pitching his voice as low and calm as he can.

The fire fizzles out and Fjord relaxes with it. “Ah, my apologies, Fjord,” Caleb says, and it carries easily despite its soft cadence. He slumps back down to wrap his arms around his knees. Now that he knows he’s there, Fjord can see the way Caleb’s wedged himself up against the peak of a dormer window, looking surprisingly sure-footed on the roof of the Xhorhaus.

With slow, measured steps, Fjord makes his way over to Caleb, then sits down next to him, breath leaving him with a wheeze. “No harm done.” 

Caleb hums, but doesn’t voice his disagreement.

Fjord cuts his eyes over to Caleb, notes the way the heavy sleeves of his coat have been shoved up, the way Caleb idly scratches at his forearm. Wonders if it’s habit, a compulsion, a nervous tick, like when Fjord catches himself picking at his tusks. The light from the tree gilts the ends of Caleb’s hair, the strong line of his nose, his stubborn chin. Fjord catches himself eyeing Caleb up and down and drags his attention back to the skyline of Rosohna.

Beside Fjord, Caleb shifts, and he braces a hand between them, pale fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm. Caleb turns to face Fjord a little more fully, and Fjord responds in kind, meeting Caleb’s eyes with a raised eyebrow. Caleb quickly averts his eyes.

“What, ah, what brings you out here?”

What indeed? Truth, or lie by omission? Open his godsdamned baggage or keep it shoved under the bed? Deflect, or take the hit?

“I imagine it’s the same thing that has you just about ready to light my ass up.”

“Ah.” Then, after a pause, “Do you… wish to talk about it?” Caleb sounds like he already knows the answer. He probably only offered out of politeness. Fjord doesn’t know if he’s pleased or disappointed that Caleb knows him well enough to guess his response.

“Nah,” Fjord says, scraping at the bed of a claw, “Just the same old shit.” At that, Caleb straightens a bit, head cocked and eyes bright.

“Your snakey friend?” he asks, lowly, and Fjord doesn’t miss the way Caleb’s eyes dart down, as though to search him for traces of sea water and bile. Fjord shakes his head.

“Nope, no,” Fjord hesitates, winces, “no  _ wet _ dreams. Haven’t heard from ol’ Uk’otoa for a while now.” Caleb looks skeptical at this, but he doesn’t argue as Fjord goes on to mumble, petulant, “And he ain’t my friend.”

“Of course.”

Fjord taps his claws together, lets the clicking sound fill the silence between them as he considers the deep bruises pressed below Caleb’s eyes. He gives a short cough, copper on his tongue once more.

“And what about you? Wanna talk about it?” It’s only common decency, Fjord tells himself, resolutely ignoring the flutter in his stomach at Caleb’s pained half smile.

It looks more like a grimace.

“I am alright, thank you.” Fjord gives a short nod. Caleb’s hands give an aborted movement, fingers giving half a snap, but then return to pick at his arm, thumb pressing hard at the hollow of his skinny wrist.

The wind picks up again, the breeze smelling of dust and rain, not a trace of brine to be found, and Fjord suppresses a shiver as it slices through his shirt and cools the sweat that lingers at the small of his back. He wishes, suddenly, that he had the foresight to bring a blanket along. He hunches forward and latches onto his ankles, elbows tucked tight at his sides, trying to curl into a ball to conserve a little bit of heat.

The rooftops of Rosohna stretch out before them, murky in the city’s perpetual night. The green glow of the lamps below are eerie from a distance and they seem to bob in place. Fjord closes one eye and holds up a finger, blotting one of them out. Caleb snorts and shakes his head

It feels a little like taking second watch, like they’re searching for something sliding through the dark, while their friends sprawl around them in peaceful slumber. Fjord finds himself almost wishing for the grit and danger of the open road, if only to get away from the stuffy, overbearing feeling of their rapidly increasing ties to Rosohna.

Another, stronger wind blows over them, bringing with it the smell of rain. All these fucking storms are also getting on Fjord’s nerves, and he misses, just for a moment, the humid heat of the Coast. But then he remembers how much stronger Uk’otoa’s hold on him had been on the seas, and decides that the distance from the ocean outweighs the dreary monotony of Xhorhas’ ever-cloudy skies. Besides, all of these storms are probably comforting to Yasha, giving her a chance to commune with her god, and Fjord can’t deny that he’s at least a little curious about their relationship. He’s eager to learn more about it, even just by watching.

The wind continues to pick up, gusting over them and causing the light from the jars in the tree to flicker. Fjord can’t hold back another, more violent shiver as the wind blows, cool as the prick of a knife. His fingers tighten on his ankles, points of his claws digging into the delicate skin.

Caleb clicks his tongue and Fjord looks up to see him shrugging his coat off his shoulders. It’s his old one, the fur lining the collar stained with mud and blood, ratty and beaten, and Fjord is quick to place his hand on Caleb’s bony shoulder, stalling his movement. “Hey, hey, what are you doing?” Caleb raises his eyebrows.

“Giving you my coat,” Caleb says, slowly, as though explaining to a child. Fjord bristles, briefly, then sighs and tries to tug the coat back around Caleb’s shoulders. Caleb’s hands don’t budge and Fjord very quickly gives up.

“Listen, no offense, but you-- you’re fuckin’ skin and bones, Caleb.” Fjord gestures helplessly to Caleb’s everything, encompassing his general state of scrawny almost-sickliness. “‘Sides, it’s my own fault for being unprepared.”

Caleb levels an unimpressed look at him, continuing to work his coat down his arms. He’s wearing long sleeves, the fabric thick and in the Xhorhassian style.  _ “Ja, _ but I run hot,” he says, like that’s explanation enough to justify disrobing on the roof of a godsdamn manor, “and it seems you do not.” He peers more closely at Fjord, who swallows at the way most of Caleb’s hair has slipped from its messy tail to frame his face. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“Am not,” Fjord grumbles, “I’m sturdy as hell.” He’s betrayed by his own body, another shiver wracking its way through him.

“Sure, sure,” Caleb agrees, and drapes his coat around Fjord’s shoulders. Relief from the cold is instantaneous--it seems as though Caleb wasn’t lying and it feels like Fjord’s settled down in front of a lowly crackling hearth, warm, content. The fur that lines the coat is surprisingly soft where it brushes the hinge of Fjord’s jaw and it smells of rust, licorice, and catmint. He holds back a sneeze when he notices the cat hair and doesn’t think about all the other things most likely stored in the pockets. “There,” Caleb murmurs. He sounds far too pleased with himself.

Fjord ducks his head and tucks his hands the wrong way up the sleeves. “Thanks.”

_ “Ja.” _

They sit quietly, the night and the breeze and the ambient lighting from the tree much more enjoyable with Caleb’s coat tucked around him. Eventually, Fjord offers Caleb one of the sleeves, because he feels bad stealing his coat, truly, and Caleb accepts, scooting closer so their arms press together under the weight of the coat. It’s a tight fit--the coat is big on Caleb, but he’s still narrow and Fjord’s still broad, but it’s warm and they make it work.

They make it work.

Time passes in a slow crawl, thick and soupy and stretchy like taffy. Fjord finds himself yawning frequently into the back of his hand, jaw popping, and Caleb slumps further and further into Fjord’s side, like his strings are being cut, one by one. His hand is slack on the sleeve, so Fjord gathers it up and holds both cuffs loosely in his hands.

Finally, Caleb pushes himself up a bit, hand on Fjord’s thigh, and rolls his head, neck cracking loudly in the quiet. Fjord desperately tries to pull his attention away from the heat of Caleb’s hand on his leg, lines of fire radiating out from the tip of each finger.

“It’s late. We should go back in,” Caleb says. Fjord wilts a little at the thought of scrambling ungracefully back onto the turret with an audience. Caleb seems to notice and bumps Fjord’s shoulder with his own. “We can go the way I came, if you prefer.” Fjord looks at Caleb, confused, brows furrowed. Caleb isn’t smiling, not quite, but there’s a glint in his eyes, a mischievous spark that belies his somber expression. “Not everyone likes jumping onto roofs in the dead of night, you know. Some of us aren’t that crazy.” He goes to stand and Fjord drops one sleeve, letting him pull away.

“It wasn’t exactly planned.” Fjord loops the sleeves of the coat into a loose knot that hangs in the center of his chest, tickling the exposed skin of his collar bones. He unfolds himself with far less surety and grace than Caleb, but he doesn’t slip. That definitely counts as a win.

_ “Ja,  _ I figured.” With a startling quickness, Caleb ducks around the dormer window. Fjord rushes to follow and pokes his head around the corner just in time to see Caleb finish forcing the window open. He slides into the house and Fjord hesitates, feeling unsteady and a little stupid.

Caleb’s torso pops back out and he waves Fjord along, a little impatiently. “Come on.”

Fjord steps closer to the edge of the roof, hand ghosting along the edge of the dormer window. His foot slips on the roof’s tiles as he rounds the corner and Fjord has to lunge to latch onto the window frame. He hauls himself through the window and sits on the sill, catching his breath. Caleb stands a foot or so away, hand pressed to his hip, where one of his pockets of components would be, if he had his coat.

_ “Scheiße,” _ Caleb breathes. Fjord gives him a smile, aiming for reassuring, but it comes out wobbly. Really, there hadn’t been any danger; the falchion is only a breath away, and it wouldn’t have been that far a fall, but Fjord’s heart still beats jack-rabbit fast in his ribcage.

“Nailed it,” he says, instead, and hops down from the windowsill. It’s only then that he notices the crate pushed up below the window, or the fact that they now stand at the top of the stairs leading down to the first floor.

It’s definitely a much more reasonable approach than Fjord’s.

Caleb fiddles with his hair, absent-mindedly retying it into its low tail. Fjord glances down, sees the sleeves of Caleb’s coat, and quickly pulls it off, smoothing a hand down the front of it, fingers catching on its weather-beaten fastenings. He bundles it up and holds it out to Caleb, who blinks at it, owlish.

“Thanks again,” Fjord says, wiggling it a bit when Caleb doesn’t immediately reach for it. “Very cozy.”

“Oh, um,  _ ja,” _ Caleb takes it, hugging it close to his chest, “I like to think so.” He glances at Fjord, then away. “Well. Goodnight, Fjord.” With that, Caleb turns on his heel, snaps, and Frumpkin appears on his shoulders, eyes luminescent in the dark and fixed on Fjord. Caleb buries his hand in Frumpkin’s scruff as he descends the stairs.

“Goodnight, Caleb,” Fjord calls, quietly, then pushes the door open, and heads for his room, the weight of Caleb’s coat and eyes and hands stuck in his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> me: sits on my roof at 11:30 at night feeling sorry for myself  
> me: o shit i have to write widofjord late night "talks" right tf now
> 
> also me, wailing while writing this and staring at the map of the xhorhaus: WHERE ARE THE WINDOWS
> 
> thank u for reading :)


End file.
